


Rude Awakening

by quokkall



Category: NCIS
Genre: Angst, Episode: s07e01 Truth or Consequences, F/M, Post-Episode: s07e01 Truth or Consequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quokkall/pseuds/quokkall
Summary: Through a haze of chemicals Tony comes to a horrible realization on the way home from Somalia.
Kudos: 45





	Rude Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this well over a year ago, I blame @gingerstorm101 (go read her fics) for putting this thought in my head back then. 

Taking in the dirty, baggy clothes of the prisoner roughly pushed onto the chair in front of him, Tony struggled to focus on the here and now. He needed to keep his wits about him, make sure that, at the very least, McGee made it out of here alive. The truth serum was wreaking havoc on his mind, and when Saleem pulled the bag from the prisoner’s head, reality became even more warped.

His sanity hung on by a thread, engaged in a conversation he could barely follow with the ghost of the woman whose death had led him to this hellhole—the woman now sitting in front of him, close enough to touch if he hadn’t been tied to a chair. Ziva David wasn’t dead and nothing made sense…except for the need to get her out of there…alive.

He struggled to focus on her face—smudged, bruised, pale. Her eyes, dead but with the flicker of fight when his mouth said something about a plan—what plan, he wasn’t entirely sure, but he was sure it sounded better back when life had no meaning and survival wasn’t exactly a priority. 

_Focus, fight the chemical cloud taking over your mind, save her._

Her hair, loose and curly, the way he liked it best, except…not like this, dirty and brittle, with what looked like dried blood in the strands that disappeared underneath her shirt collar.

He frowned, licked his cracked lips with a parched tongue. There was something very wrong with this picture, he simply couldn’t put his finger on it. But then there was a knife against her throat and his heart stopped and then a bullet stopped Saleem and it wasn’t until they were safely in a chopper, flying over an endless sea of sand that seemed to have gotten into his very soul, that that tingle of a thought came back.

A prick in his arm, words spoken by a medic but unheard over the sound of the rotors. Inhaling deeply he avoided looking at the stretcher the medic once again turned his attention to. The stretcher that held the husk of what was once his partner. His friend. The woman who had—he had realized too late—a vice like grip on his heart and soul.

From the corner of his eye he watched the medic guide Ziva into a sitting position. She went willingly, sitting there like a rag doll almost, not slapping away strange hands that kept touching her everywhere checking for injuries, no threats of bodily harm that used to flow so easily from her lips. He wondered briefly whether the cocktail Saleem had shot him up with had made him hallucinate Ziva’s face on some random female prisoner’s, because there was no way the Ziva he knew would let anyone touch her without a fight.

When the medic carefully removed her shirt, new and old scars became visible. His vision blurred. He turned away, grabbed a paper bag, and threw up whatever was left in his stomach.

A blur of uniformed men and women. Cold, wet towels. A bottle of water that upset his stomach, again. Loud, urgent voices. The smell of hospital, none of the bright lights and shiny surfaces, though. Ziva leaving his sight. His body and mind felt like imploding. A warm, rough hand on his shoulder, kind voice in his ear, steel blue eyes full of understanding.

He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, preparing himself for a long flight home. For mending a relationship he had given up on, but that hopefully wasn’t broken beyond repair.

Once on the plane that would take them home, Gibbs buckled her in on the seat next to him. Her presence, so close after so long apart, invaded every fiber of his being. He wanted to touch her, prove to himself that this wasn’t a mirage, wasn’t another dream, another nightmare.

She stared straight ahead, slight confusion etched on her face, her hair still a tangled mess, once again trapped below the collar of her shirt.

He shifted in his seat to get a better look at her. She didn’t seem to notice him, or Gibbs and McGee sitting across from her. Occasionally her eyes would narrow, and he was grateful she seemed to have snapped out of the catatonic state she appeared to be in on the chopper, when the medic had removed her shirt.

_The collar of her shirt._

He blinked, clarity slowly returning to his mind thanks to whatever the doctor had given him. Not quite clear enough to figure out what was bothering him about her shirt, though.

His eyes drifted to her hair once more. Memories of running his hands through those soft strands a lifetime ago, rose up along with bile from his now empty stomach. _That_ Ziva would have made a lewd comment about him staring at her. She had, in fact, back when he had watched her get dressed, slowly buttoning her shirt while smirking at him, then raising her hands and flicking her hair from underneath the shirt collar in a vision of grace and sensuality forever seared into his brain.

Something obvious and nauseating was fighting to the forefront of his mind. Absentmindedly he grabbed one of the paper bags the medic had given him with a tight-lipped smile and a “trust me, you’re gonna need them”.

He fought the fog and the nausea, focused on the texture of the paper underneath his fingertips, on her hair disappearing beneath her collar.

Trapped there.

Unable to escape ever since the medic had dressed her.

He raised his free hand, intent on releasing the curls from their cotton prison, vaguely hoping it would set her mind free as well, knowing full well it wouldn’t.

Instead, realization hit him like a ton of bricks. His hand felt like lead and he dropped it to his leg. Suddenly clammy and dizzy, he dry heaved, raised the paper bag to his mouth as images flooded his mind.

Images of endless torture and pain. Of blood and broken bones. Of Ziva’s naked body being roughly dressed by the monsters that had kept her alive for one reason only.

A sob left his lips as tears sprang to his eyes at the horrors she must have endured.

_No wonder she was ready to die._

The fury and anguish he felt—at what they had done to her, at how easily Saleem had gotten away with everything, a simple bullet to the head—were multiplied by the leftover chemicals now making his blood boil. His fingers dug into his leg, trying to get a grip for Ziva’s sake, not knowing if she was even aware of her surroundings. Of him.

He tried to breathe in deeply but seemed to choke on the hot, stuffy air in the airplane as he wondered why they had even bothered to dress her before dragging her into his cell. Had they thought he would have been more cooperative if it looked like they had treated her well?

Something between a scoff and another sob left his lips, cold, boney fingers wrapped around his own.

His breath hitched, he blinked rapidly trying to rid his eyes of tears that hadn’t fallen. He couldn’t face her like this. Her fingers squeezed his, barely noticeably, and when he finally met her eyes it was like a breath of fresh air.

“It will pass,” she said softly with knowing eyes.

Unsure whether she was talking about the nausea, the images flashing before his eyes, or the nightmares she had endured, and probably would for a long time to come, he wrapped his hand around hers gently.

The faint flicker in her eyes sparked the embers of hope that had died when Gibbs had uttered the words “no survivors”.


End file.
